


Goodnight Friend.  For Together, We Can Rest Now

by WhatLocked



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Grieving, M/M, Major character death - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-25 11:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4958170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I always loved you, you know" John whispers, that beautiful smile still on his lips.</p><p>Sluggishly, Sherlock smiles back.  "I know" he whispers in return. "You told me, that day...." Sherlock can't bring himself to finish that sentence, so instead he says  "As I have always loved you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodnight Friend.  For Together, We Can Rest Now

Sherlock watches as the room slowly fills with the early morning light. It is not something that he normally enjoys but this morning is different. This morning is special. This morning he woke up with John Watson in his bed.

He lays on his left side, not daring to move or make a noise any louder than the carefully controlled breathing he is doing, for fear of waking the sleeping man next to him. John looks so different when he sleeps. His face is smoother and his hair is mussed. He is more relaxed and it is a truly enjoyable experience to finally be able to lay there and observe him up close and without fear of getting caught staring.

After a while Sherlock can no longer resist the urge to reach out and touch the man, so carefully he stretches out and runs a hand gently along his cheek. John gives a light twitch but does not wake up so Sherlock lets his hand continue it's journey down his neck and onto his shoulder. The shoulder that is marred by a rather large scar, but Sherlock doesn't want to catalogue that today. That is for another day. Today his hand travels over Johns shoulder and onto his chest where it stops over his heart and just feels the strong, steady heart beat underneath his palm. It is a wonderful feeling.

John opens his eyes, just a bit and observes Sherlock. A small smile lights up his face, brighter that any morning sun could.

"Good morning" he rasps, his voice broken from sleep.

Sherlock smiles back. "Good morning John."

John leans forwards and places his lips gently against Sherlocks. "Please say you didn't stay up all night watching me" he says with a grin.

"Creepy?" Sherlock asks, rubbing his nose softly up against the side of John's nose.

"Just a bit" John replies with a smile.

Sherlock places a kiss on John's lips. "I promise I didn't watch you sleep all night" he reassures John.

John shuffles closer and brings his arm up to place around Sherlocks waist, pulling the taller man closer. "I have waited so long to have this. You...me...waking up together."

Sherlock wraps his arm around Johns shoulders and pulls them even closer together. "Well, now you have me. Every morning for as long as we both shall live" and he brings his mouth back down to Johns and they share a slow, but intimate kiss. Not rushing anything, just enjoying the moment, being able to be together.

They spend a good portion of the morning like that, kissing, embracing, feeling the other person in front of them, hands slowly sliding over skin but as they say, all good things must come to an end. (Sherlock hates _'they'. 'They_ ' have too many opinions on things that do not concern them.)

Slowly, and regretfully, John pulls back from Sherlock, just enough to look him in the eye.

"You know, after today, we can't do this anymore."  There is a sadness and a deep regret in Johns words.

"Why not."  Sherlock does not want to hear this.  He does not want to acknowledge the truth, therefore if he can get a feeble response from John he can counter it with a better response.  One that works more in their favour.  Unfortunately Johns response can not be argued logically.

"You know why not." 

Forever there is silence between them.

"What if we never leave this room again" Sherlock offers with false hope.  "If you don't leave then you can't not come back."

John smiles a small, sad smile at Sherlocks solution and reaches out a hand to gently stroke his cheek.

"I wish we had done this before" He says remorsefully.  "Why did we never do this before?"

With a small sigh Sherlock leans back down and places their foreheads together.  "Because we are both stubborn and ridiculously British."

This elicits a smile from John which sends a warmth through Sherlocks body which, despite their situation, leaves him feeling light hearted and relaxed.

With a small huff of breath John looks into Sherlocks eyes.  "I will always keep this moment" he tells Sherlock.  "What we have now.  It will always be with me."

Sherlock refuses to let his eyes water.  He stubbornly wills it not to happen.  "Every detail is already stored in my mind palace" he tells John because he never wants to forget this moment either.

Again, they lay there, together, in silence, just being there with each other.  It isn't long, though, before life gets in the way.  John gets up to use the bathroom and it is at that moment that Mrs Hudson takes the opportunity to annoy Sherlock.

With a quiet knock on his bedroom door the small lady steps into the room.  

"Sherlock, dear" she says gently coming to sit on the edge of the bed.  She takes his hand in hers and gives it a gentle pat.  "It's time to get up and get dressed" she tells him.  "There will be a car here in an hour to take us to the church."

He sneers at her words and she gently lowers his hand back onto the mattress.  "If you need anything, I'll just be downstairs" she says sadly and quickly leaves the room.  

Sherlock listens as she makes her way down stairs, a small grumble leaving his throat.  Why do people insist on pointing out the painfully obvious to him.  He knows he has to be at the church soon.  He has been told a hundred times this week alone.  Today is the day, but why people insist on constantly reminding him is beyond him.  Sherlock looks to the wardrobe in the corner and glares at the suit that is hanging on the door.  He hates that suit.

It is at that moment that John exits the bathroom and looks down at Sherlock, still sprawled out under the sheet, with a sad sort of smile on his face.  "She's right, you know.  You need to get up and showered and dressed.  And I need to go and get ready as well.  It might be a bit not good for me to show up late."  He tries to smile at his attempt at a joke, but it doesn't reach his eyes.  

Sherlock kicks the sheet away and gets up, walking over to John.  He brings his hands up to frame the smaller mans face and looks down into his eyes. "Don't go" he quietly pleads.

At this request John's eyes start to brim with tears.  "You know I have to go, Sherlock.  I can't back out now."

Sherlock knows this.  He has thought this through.  So he brings his lips down to John Watson's one last time,  tasting him and smelling him, committing the way his breath picks up, and the feel of his pulse, rapidly throbbing in his neck to memory.  He remembers the sounds that he makes as Sherlocks tongue dances with his own and Sherlock remembers the way that John Watson looks right now.  How he looks when he is in love with Sherlock Holmes.

 

~o~

Sherlock doesn't remember the church.  He has hated this day from the moment he was told it was going to happen.  Of course he knew that it was coming without having to be told.  It's what happens.  It's what people do.  There is an order to this sort of thing and going to church is part of that order.  Normally Sherlock would have refused, but it is for John.  Always for John.  So needless to say, Sherlock goes to the church and he sits and stands where he is told.  He shakes the hands of people he doesn't know and receives embraces, unreturned of course, from the overly emotional.  

Throughout the entire ceremony Sherlock is aware that people are talking, speeches are being made, but for the life of him he would not be able to repeat a single word back if he were asked to.  That goes for anything the priest says as well.  

Sherlock hates his un-heard words the most.  He doesn't know John.  He never will.  He has no right to utter words about this beautiful, wonderful man.  But he does, and Sherlock ignores him.  He ignores everyone and everything.  His only focus being on John Watson, who is situated at the front of the church where tradition and society dictate he should be.  

 _Well_ , Sherlock thinks, _screw tradition and society_.  He wants John Watson back at Baker Street, in Sherlocks bed, where it is only them and no one else.  But Sherlock doesn't voice this.  Instead he stays silent, his gaze fixed onto the front of the church, and he does not listen to the priest rattle on about things he has no right to rattle on about.

 

It isn't until later, much later, that Sherlock finally speaks.

He had thought that he was the only one left in the cemetery.  No one to witness as he kneels down in front of the great black headstone, engraved with gold lettering.  An almost identical headstone had been placed in this exact spot 2 years, 10 months, 3 weeks and 2 days ago.  At that time the headstone had read just two words.

 _Sherlock Holmes_.

Today, they read three.

 _John Hamish Watson_.

Sherlock slowly runs his hand over the ornate gold lettering and finally, after four days of denying what his mind knew was true, Sherlock accepts that John Watson will no longer stand by his side.  For the first time since John had taken his final breath, Sherlock Holmes lets himself cry.

It isn't loud wails and gut wrenching sobbing that he exhibits.  It is silent and personal and intimate between him and the man buried six feet beneath him.  To anyone who would pass by the only indication would be the hunched, slight shuddering of his shoulders.

"You can't be dead" he quietly sobs.  "There was so much more that we were meant to do.  So much more that I wanted to say."

There is no answer and Sherlock knows that there is no point in asking for one more miracle.  John Watson is dead.  He had died while Sherlock held him.  It was no illusion, no magic trick.  John wasn't coming back.

For a few more minutes, or a few years (Sherlock has lost all concept of time) Sherlock stays kneeling in front of the headstone, the damp from the freshly turned earth and the crushed flowers under his knees seeping into his trousers.  He holds his hand over the etched name in the black marble, as if he were holding his hand over Johns heart.  But if that were the case there would be soft, warm flesh.  Instead there is only hard, cold stone.

He stays that way for what could have been forever, for all he knew, the tears slowly falling down his cheeks only to drop onto the ground below, before he hears footsteps behind him.

At the sound of the gravel softly crunching under shoes, slowly nearing to where Sherlock and John are saying their final goodbye, Sherlock stands up, the slow action causing him pain as if he is stretching muscles that have been unused for far too long.  As he finishes straightening up he takes a step back as the person approaching him takes a final step forward, stopping next to Sherlock.

"Is she dead?" Sherlock asks.  If it wasn't for the slight angry strain in his voice Mycroft would say that it was said completely emotionlessly, as everything, (be it very little),  his brother had uttered these past four days had been.

"She is" is his curt reply.

The two brothers don't look at each other.  They don't need to. They both stare at the grave before them, both mourning a great loss.

Sherlock is mourning the loss of the only man, the only person, that he ever truly loved.  The only person who had ever loved him back.

Mycroft is mourning the loss of his brother for he knows that there is no returning from this.  Not for Sherlock.

"Where will you go now?" Mycroft asks casually.  He has his men staking out all of Sherlock's usual suppliers.  If there was ever a danger night then tonight would be it.  The past four nights have been danger nights, but tonight will be worse for the simple fact that today, Sherlock finally let himself accept the knowledge that Doctor John Watson is dead.  And after all he had done to keep the man alive.

"Home" comes the sombre reply before he turns and walks away, leaving Mycroft alone with the headstone of John Watson.

"I truly am sorry" he mutters to the marble slab and then he too turns and walks away.

221 B Baker Street will be under heavy surveillance tonight.

~o~

Sherlock slips into his pyjamas, leaving his suit on the floor.  He will never wear that suit again.  He is almost tempted to burn it, but instead turns his attention to more pressing matters.

He sinks down on the edge of his bed and picks up the near empty glass that is on the bedside table.  He swallows what little water is left in the glass to help wash down the two small blue pills that are starting to dissolve on his tongue.  He had found the bottle of pills in John's medical bag.  Mycrofts men had obviously not thought to look for drugs there while Sherlock was at the funeral.  Either they are stupid, slipping or new.  It doesn't matter.  It isn't Sherlocks problem.

Sliding in between the sheets he reaches over and clicks off the lamp.  The room is plunged into a semi-darkness, a soft light coming through his half open door from the hallway light that he forgot to turn off.  Oh well.  He isn't getting up now to turn it off.

As Sherlock rolls over onto his side, his back to the unintentionally illuminated doorway, his is surprised, but not unpleasantly so, to see John lying on the opposite side of the bed, also dressed in his pyjamas and tucked under the quilt, on his side facing Sherlock.

"You do know they were prescription pills" he says with an amused frown on his face.

Sherlock shrugs.

"You are only meant to take one, and that bottle  _was_ full.  How many did you take?" he asks slightly exasperatedly, with a slight roll of his eyes.

Again, Sherlock shrugs.  "Does it matter?" he asks.

This time it is John's turn to shrug.  "I guess not.  But you are an idiot, you know that don't you."  It is said fondly, so Sherlock doesn't deem an answer necessary.  Instead he says, "I thought you said we couldn't do this anymore."

"Have you ever known me to say no to you, Sherlock?" John's smile is warm as his hand comes up to rest on Sherlocks chest, just over his heart.

"Frequently" Sherlock respond, his hand coming up to cover John's.

A small huff of laughter leaves Johns throat.  "I mean, when it matters?" John clarifies quietly.

Sherlock stares at John, looks into his eyes and tries to convey everything he is feeling into that look because for all of his intelligence he is absolutely rubbish when it comes to talking about his emotions.

Something must communicate though as the look that John returns is just as laden with his own unsaid words.

Sherlock looks into Johns eyes one more time, his finger tracing a faint line against his cheek.  One final time, in the dim light of his bedroom, he takes in the deep, yet somehow bright, blue of his eyes.  His gaze shifts and he takes note of the grey-blonde hair, normally brushed neat and orderly, now slightly dishevelled giving him a more youthful look.

As he feels the first strings of sleep pull him under Sherlock lazily strokes the skin of Johns neck, allowing his hand to travel over Johns tee-shirt to rest on the skin covering his elbow.  That golden skin that still, to this day, seems to hold the glow and the warmth of the Afghan desert.

Lastly he looks to John's mouth which, even now, after everything that they have gone through, smiles soft and warm.  The smile he only ever has for Sherlock.

John's hand, calloused yet soft, comes up to stroke Sherlock's cheek as Sherlock feels the pull of unconsciousness become more persistent.

"I always loved you, you know" John whispers, that beautiful smile still on his lips.

Sluggishly, Sherlock smiles back.  "I know" he whispers in return. "You told me, that day...." Sherlock can't bring himself to finish that sentence, so instead he says  "As I have always loved you."

Sherlock can no longer keep his eyes open and he gladly lets them droop shut, knowing that the last thing he sees is John Watson's smiling, wonderful face.

"Goodnight friend" John whispers as he places a kiss on Sherlock's forehead, and the last thing that Sherlock feels, as his breathing slows and the darkness takes over, is the loving embrace of Johns arms around his shoulders. "For together, we can rest now."

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry!
> 
> NTW


End file.
